


Keep Me Steady

by Kogiopsis



Category: Cosmere - Brandon Sanderson, SANDERSON Brandon - Works, Stormlight Archive - Brandon Sanderson
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, M/M, Trans Male Character, some mentions of transphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2015-11-23
Packaged: 2018-05-03 00:21:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5269499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kogiopsis/pseuds/Kogiopsis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some gratuitous fluff, because why not:  Kaladin gets into a bar fight defending Renarin, which makes for a surprisingly good meet-cute.  Vaguely inspired by <a href="http://kogiopsis.tumblr.com/post/120167933989/aherosarchive-i-had-to-be-ur-fake">this</a> post, though it spun off in a different direction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep Me Steady

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Silver/Hawkeline and Joe/FBSTJ for beta-reading!
> 
> I'm a cis female writer approaching the POV of a trans male character here, so if I've gotten anything wrong please let me know and I'll fix it.

“Hey, asshole!”  The voice is unfamiliar, sharp-edged and commanding.  “Leave him alone.”

“Him?  Man, do you need your eyes checked if you think this-”

Renarin’s eyes are fixed on the tabletop, following the grain of the wood between his hands in an endless back-and-forth.  He can’t look up to see the speaker, but he hears loud footsteps and a rustle of cloth, and then the sense of being loomed over is gone in a soft rush of air over the back of his neck.  He clenches his teeth as all of his muscles tighten and the first meaty thud announces a punch landing.  There’s another - someone spits - someone stumbles backwards and a table clatters - his muscles loosen just enough for him to slide under the table, scoot without dignity to the back of the booth, and curl into a ball in the darkness.  He listens to the sounds of violence because he can’t block them out, rocking back and forth in place, releasing his breath in percussive bursts.

Some time later - he’s lost track of how long - the noise is gone.  Renarin’s short exhales are all he can hear, roaring in his ears in the newfound silence, and he sucks in deep breaths until he can quiet them down.  He’s stopped rocking, but when he tries to uncurl his hands from their grip around his knees, they quiver uncontrollably.  Standing isn’t an option; he’ll just have to hope the bar staff won’t try to kick him out before he can recover fully.

The tablecloth at the open end of his booth lifts and Renarin curses his bad luck - but the face looking in isn’t one he remembers.  The man is brown-skinned, with strands of curly dark hair falling across his face and a bright splotch of wet blood on his lower lip and chin.  One of his eyes is squinted partially shut; the other is too dark, in the shadows, for Renarin to make out its color.

“You okay under there?” he says.  His voice is quiet - the tone you’d use on a cowering dog, Renarin thinks - but it’s the same one that was yelling earlier.  The one who… defended him?

Renarin tries to shake his head, but his body betrays him and he shakes all over instead, a shiver that rattles his spine against the booth seat.

“Okay,” the stranger says.  He lifts the cloth a little higher and crawls awkwardly underneath it, and Renarin can see that the knuckles on his right hand have split in several places.  The blood there is darker and more congealed.  The stranger runs his tongue over the cut in his lip like a nervous habit, explaining why it looks fresher.

“The guy who was giving you trouble is gone,” he says, still in that mellow spooked-animal sort of voice.  “He won’t be coming back if he knows what’s good for him.”

Renarin hates himself for how well that voice is working on him, but it _is_ working.  His shoulders drop fractionally and that eases the tension along his spine and down his arms.  Carefully, he opens his mouth, shaping the words in his head:  thank you; I’m fine; that’ll teach me to go out in public like this.  But all he can do is purse his lips around the first consonant.  No sound emerges.

“I’ll leave you alone if you want,” the stranger says.  “Just… wanted to make sure you were alright.  That he hadn’t hurt you.”  He falls silent for a moment, then starts scooting towards the exit.

“Wait,” Renarin gasps out, and the stranger stops.  Renarin should say more - explain why - but he can’t, and his jaw works up and down with no result.  He looks away from the stranger’s face.  There’ll be confusion there, or maybe disgust or scorn.  Or worse, doubt that Renarin was ever worth defending.

_Scuff._  Denim against floorboards.  Body heat radiating against his arm, not touching but close.  He looks up and the stranger is still there, closer.  The man flashes him a smile, stretching his bottom lip and opening up the split again.

“I’m Kaladin, by the way,” he says conversationally.

Renarin closes his eyes and breathes as slowly and deeply as he can, and in the dark and the companionable quiet, he feels his heartbeat slow back to normal.

“Renarin,” he says after a long while, when he can finally uncurl his fingers and stretch out his legs.  The tendons behind his knees have cramped, and he winces as he extends them again.

“Kholin,” the stranger - Kaladin - finishes.  “I work security at one of your father’s companies.  Never thought I’d be meeting a member of the family though.”

Renarin shrugs.  “Lucky you, I suppose.”

“Something like that,” Kaladin says.  He rolls his head from side to side, cracking several vertebrae.  “Are you feeling well enough to get out from under here?  I could really use some water.”

Renarin nods, and Kaladin exits first.  As Renarin crawls out, he looks up to see a hand and takes it: callused, nails cut pragmatically short.  Kaladin is watching him as he stands and Renarin can’t avoid brief eye contact.  Brown - Kaladin’s eyes are dark, rich brown, like the old leather of an encyclopedia.

The bar is empty, but the burly redheaded bartender is still there, drying glasses to crystal perfection.  Kaladin settles easily in on one of the stools and gestures Renarin to the one next to him.  “Two waters, Rock, if you don’t mind,” he says, and the bartender nods.

“We’re college friends,” Kaladin tells Renarin as the bartender fills their glasses.  “I told him he should open a real restaurant, but he insists it’s not as good if you don’t interact with people.”

“So instead I am here,” Rock says, setting down two waters in front of them.  He’s got a towel over his shoulder and a grin on his bearded face.  “I make people drinks, and they tell me all their troubles.  Is a good living.”

Renarin nods in answer, then takes a sip of water.  Swallowing makes him wince; it feels like there’s a rock caught in his throat that he has to force down.  The second sip is easier, and by the third he’s started to feel less parched and exhausted.

“What’s a Kholin doing here?” Kaladin asks, and Renarin freezes in place with the glass halfway to the counter.  His mind stutters as he tries to come up with an answer, any answer, and fails.  Finally, he tells the truth.

“I wanted somewhere I could be a stranger,” he says.  “To get out and… do something normal, for once.”   _Instead of being the family freak,_ he thinks, but bites down on the words before they can escape.

Kaladin lifts his own cup and clinks its edge gently against Renarin’s, still in midair.

“I can understand that,” he says, downing a gulp of water.  Wordlessly Rock passes him a paper napkin and he dips it into the cup, then dabs at the dried blood on his chin.

“Kholin,” Rock says, leaning on the other side of the bar.  “Do you need a ride home?”

That makes Renarin pause.  He’d planned on taking a taxi back, but he’s too shaky to trust himself, too nervous to be alone with a stranger.  That leaves calling Adolin or, worse yet, his father, and he’s not ready for Adolin’s righteous anger or Dalinar’s quiet disappointment.

“Yes,” he answers wearily, and Rock and Kaladin exchange glances.  Kaladin nods.

“I know the house,” he says.  “I’ll take you, if you want.”

* * *

 

Kaladin’s car is a dull silver sedan, squarish shaped, and the seats inside are covered in plasticky-leathery material that Renarin tries not to touch much.  It’s clean, though; better than the junk food wrappers and trash that some of Adolin’s friends drive around with.  And when Kaladin folds himself into the driver’s seat, it’s with a fluid ease of long practice and familiarity that somehow makes the car interior seem complete.

“Right,” Kaladin says, starting the engine and ignoring the cough it gives as he twists the key.  “Let’s get you home, Kholin.”

Renarin sits with his knees pressed together and his hands tight in his lap.  His wallet is in his back pocket, reassuring him by its pressure that he didn’t leave it behind.  Slowly, as he adjusts to the car and to Kaladin’s driving, he relaxes enough to let his eyes wander - and sees Kaladin’s half-scabbed knuckles again.

“I’m sorry,” he says, gaze following them around the steering wheel as Kaladin turns a corner.  “You got hurt because of me.”

Kaladin looks sharply over at him and the car twitches a little to the right.  He steadies it.  “You had nothing to do with it.”

“Of course I did,” Renarin says, looking down at his hands again so he doesn’t have to see Kaladin’s expressions.  “If I hadn’t been there -”

“If you hadn’t been there he would have picked on someone else.  Guys like that care about power, not people.”  Long pause.  “Some of them don’t even _think_ about people; they just use them as stepping stones.”  The car halts at a stoplight and Kaladin sighs.

“Look, Kholin, I - I’ve seen people like him before.  Busted knuckles on some of them too.  It wasn’t you.”

Renarin glances up and catches an expression he can’t name on Kaladin’s face for just a moment.  Then the light turns green and they keep going.

Kaladin leaves him in front of his family’s long driveway.  Renarin pauses before he shuts the passenger side door, then leans back in and extends a hand to Kaladin.

“Thank you,” he says.  “And - my brother’s friends call him ‘Kholin’.  I’m just Renarin.”

Kaladin’s smile crinkles the corners of his eyes as he takes Renarin’s hand and shakes it firmly.  “You’re welcome then, Renarin.”

The whole walk up the driveway Renarin hears nothing behind him - but as he opens the door to the house, the engine coughs and the sound of wheels on pavement fades into the distance.

* * *

 

The next day is Saturday, but Renarin wakes up early and slips out of the house.  Lacking anywhere else to go, he tells one of the family drivers to take him to work.

Strictly speaking, there’s no nepotism in the family of corporations his father and cousin run; but it just so happened that an administrative staff position opened up at the Alethkar Heavy Industries headquarters shortly after Renarin graduated from college, and it just so happened that he was qualified for it.  Renarin tries not to think about it, in part because he’s so grateful it’s almost pathetic.  No need to hunt for jobs with strangers, to sit through a dozen uncomfortable interviews and know he’ll be rejected because he can’t make eye contact.  No need to put on makeup and a blouse because that’s what they expect to see, and no uproar when he finally submitted paperwork changing his legal name and gender.  The back of his neck prickles from time to time when someone walks past his cubicle - he knows that not all of the other employees approve of him, for one reason or another - but none of them would dare say it.  It’s security, of a sort.

He does enjoy the work, in a way.  It’s just systematic enough to have a sort of routine comfort, with enough surprises that his continued success feels like something he earned.  And of course, there’s always more to do, so no one will look askance at him for coming in on the weekend to take care of a few things.

The building is blessedly quiet and dim.  Lights turn on automatically as he walks, but only along his path, leaving the rest of the building in soft shadow.  There are papers heaped on his desk from the day before, sorted roughly into piles by priority.  He settles into his chair, picks up the top of the high-priority stack and a pen, and begins to make notes.

* * *

The phone on his desk rings some hours later, and he jumps and stares for a moment before reaching for it.

“Alethkar Heavy Industries; how may I help you?”

“Renarin!  You’re there.  Thank God.”  It’s his brother’s voice, and Renarin cringes.  Adolin left for his own Friday celebrations early the previous night; he knows nothing of Renarin’s misadventure.

“Sorry,” he says automatically.  "I had some things to finish that couldn’t wait.”

"Not even long enough for you to take your phone?” Adolin grumbles, and Renarin’s eyes widen.  He can’t remember the last time he saw his phone - no, he can.

Before the bar fight.  Not after.  His wallet he had checked for, but not his phone.  His stomach turns: that means he has to go back there, and soon.  But surely…  not too soon?  The bar had been empty when he left-

“Renarin?  Are you there?”

“Sorry,” he says again, focusing on Adolin.  "It slipped my mind.  I didn’t mean to worry you.”

Adolin sighs and Renarin knows that means he won this round.  His brother may not be sure how to feel about him, but ‘angry’ isn’t a candidate.

"I’ll tell Father where you are,” he says, resignation in his voice.  "Aunt Navani’s coming over for dinner, so make sure you’re back by six.”

"I will.”  Silence on the line for a moment.  Then:

“Stay safe, little brother,” Adolin says.  There’s a click from his end, and Renarin sets his phone down slowly.

Dinner at six, he thinks, picking up his pen again and spinning it jerkily in his fingertips.   _The bar was empty, so if anyone took my phone they left with it before I came out.  If it’s there, that bartender has it - Rock._  He taps the pen against his other palm.   _I can wait to go back for it, can’t I?  He seemed nice; I don’t think he’ll sell it._

It wasn’t as if Renarin planned on going out again in the next few days, if ever.  Monday, he decides.  He’ll go track it down on Monday.

* * *

 

On Monday, Renarin’s phone comes to him.

Someone knocks on the entrance to his cubicle shortly before noon.  They have to do it two or three times before he realizes and turns around, and there in the gap is-

Kaladin.

His hair’s pulled back away from his face in a tight ponytail, and in the office lighting Renarin notices striking cheekbones and some sort of scar on his forehead, a mess of lines indistinct at this distance.

“You left this at Rock’s,” he says, holding out a hand.  Renarin’s phone rests on it.  Renarin blinks at the sight for a second before pushing his chair back and picking it up.  As surreptitiously as he can, he turns it on and enters his password.  It’s still the same; he’s not sure whether that means the phone’s contents are safe, but it makes him feel more secure.

“Thank you,” he says, almost an afterthought.

Kaladin waves one hand.  "I work here too, remember?  It wasn’t out of my way.”

Renarin nods.  This saves Kaladin’s friends more trouble from him, too.  They probably didn’t want him coming back to the bar after the fracas his presence had caused last time.  He turns back to his computer, setting the phone face-down on the desk to his left.

"So…”  And Renarin turns back around, because to his surprise Kaladin is still there.  In his mind, he’s already filed this interaction away as the end of their contact.  Strangers don’t tend to stick around.

“It’s about lunchtime,” Kaladin says, watching Renarin.  His eyebrows are raised like he expects something, and this whole conversation is making Renarin feel astonishingly slow because it takes him a long moment to realize.

“I uh.”  How does he handle this?  "I usually just grab something from the cafeteria.”

Kaladin is undeterred.  "Well, do you want company?”

Does he?  Renarin has to think about it, really think about it.  He’s used to eating quickly and alone.  Does he want to change habit now?

Can it hurt to try once?

“Um.  Yes, sure,” he says.  Kaladin grins at him, and Renarin wonders if this is a mistake.

* * *

If it is, it’s not immediately apparent.  Lunch is… nice.  They sit across from each other and talk, a slow conversation with even back-and-forth.  Kaladin’s determined cheeriness fades a little, and Renarin idly wonders how much of that was just to make him feel more comfortable.  He’s more intense now, more like he was when he drove Renarin home, and the way his eyes flicker around the room at regular intervals does more to remind Renarin that he works security than his crisp blue uniform.  It also makes him feel safe.  There are worse people to trust, Renarin supposes, than those who’ve already gotten into a bar fight defending you.

They talk work at first, but that somehow turns into ideas for how AHI’s technology could be adapted for disaster recovery.  Renarin finds himself leaning forward, gesturing in the empty space between their cafeteria trays as he describes new innovations his Aunt Navani’s engineering team is testing.  Kaladin’s eyes light up as he listens and nods, occasionally throwing out a question or a comment.

“You’d make a good engineer,” he says conversationally as they return their trays.  Renarin looks down, scrubbing his hands against his pants as if something’s stuck on them.

“I’m not qualified,” he says.  "My degree’s in English, with a history minor.”

Kaladin grunts.  "Couldn’t you get another degree, though?  It’s not like your family can’t afford it.”

Renarin falters for a step, then takes two to catch up.

“I guess,” he says slowly, not looking at Kaladin.  "I don’t know.  It seems wasteful.”

They stop at the elevator.  Renarin presses the up button and turns to face his companion.  Kaladin is looking in his direction, though not actually at him, and he rolls his shoulders as if to work a knot of discomfort out of them.

"Look, Renarin - all I meant by it was that if I could have afforded it, I’d have gone to medical school.  So… you have the opportunity to do what you’re passionate about; you should take it.  Not all of us get that chance.”

Renarin swallows hard and says nothing.  After a moment he manages a jerky nod, though, and that’s enough.

“Right.  Uh.  I’m on shift in the lobby in ten so… I’ll see you around?”  When he looks up, Renarin sees that Kaladin looks as uncomfortable as he feels: shoulders too stiff, hands tight at his sides.  But the expression on his face as he waits for Renarin’s response verges on hopeful.

“See you later,” Renarin says, with a tentative smile.

* * *

 

He doesn’t expect to see Kaladin again, but he does.  Again and again and again – somehow, he contrives to be passing through Renarin’s department around lunch time for the rest of the week.  He invites Renarin to eat with him every time, casual and offhand, dismissing the idea that he’s doing it on purpose with a flick of the wrist and shake of the head.  By Friday Renarin is completely sure that it’s deliberate, and just as sure that he doesn’t want to press the issue.

He likes the company, somewhat to his surprise.  Around most strangers he feels uncomfortable, like a snail missing its shell who curls up in a facsimile of self-defense.  With Kaladin it’s as if they passed that stage while Renarin was shaking under the bar table and he finds himself opening up more and more.  Their first meeting planted a seed, and with every laugh or animated discussion they share Renarin grows more convinced that Kaladin will not hurt him.   He already knows the answer to the question of what Kaladin would do when Renarin is at his worst, after all, and he holds the memory of that gentle patience close.

Another week of lunches passes, and Renarin starts thinking the word _friend_.  Kaladin’s arrivals at his cubicle are no longer a surprise, and he hardly pretends they’re coincidence.  Renarin has gotten into the habit of greeting him with a smile - a real one.

And then, a little over two weeks after their first meeting, things change.

* * *

 

“- that I don’t appreciate the work, it’s that I wonder a lot about what our products are going on to _do_ , you know?”  Kaladin waves a hand in a broad arc that indicates the wider world outside of AHI.  “And ethically speaking, how complicit are we in what happens out there?”

Renarin nods, considering.  “And does that complicity vary from position to position?  Is the janitorial staff responsible?  For the successes, the failures, or both –“ He’s cut off by the elevator dinging and frowns.  “I suppose that’s a discussion for another day, then.  See you tomorrow?”

To his surprise, Kaladin reaches out and grabs him lightly by the elbow.  “Actually….” He shuffles his feet, and Renarin stares at him in mounting fear, heartbeat speeding up out of nowhere.   _Is this it?  Is this the end?  What did I do wrong?_

“Actually, I was wondering if you’d like to get coffee with me after you get off today.”

Renarin’s speeding heart seems to skip in his chest.  Afraid as he had been of rejection, there’s only one thing to say in response.

“Sure.  Uh… come by and find me?”

Kaladin nods and lets go of Renarin’s arm.  “I’ll see you then.”

* * *

 

The rest of Renarin’s workday is a bust.  His mind is too busy turning over a great many things which just became important questions.

_Is going out for coffee a date?  Not necessarily, I would think, but is it different when you get lunch together every day?  Why would you need to get coffee together too?_  His stomach does flips at the thought, and he bites his tongue to try and refocus his mind.

_Is Kaladin gay?  He’s never said anything, but it’s only been two weeks.  Or is he straight and he sees me as – no.  That can’t be it._  He’s already survived one possible moment of betrayal today; the idea of a second, worse one is too much to bear.  Renarin pushes that thought away and refocuses on something only slightly less terrifying.

_What do I do if this_ is _a date?_

He still doesn’t have an answer by the time Kaladin shows up.

It’s only the second time he’s seen Kaladin in casual clothes, and with the word _date_ still rattling around his brain Renarin finds himself taking in the sight with a sharper eye.  Worn-looking jeans and a slim-fitting t-shirt look more natural on him than his uniform, and his posture reflects that.  He leans on the entrance to the cubicle with casual grace, crossing one leg over the other at the ankle.   In response to what Renarin realizes is probably a stare, Kaladin waves.

Renarin swallows hard.

“Give me a moment to finish some things up,” he manages to choke out, and turns away.  There’s nothing much to do but shut down his computer, and then he has to approach Kaladin. _Date date date date_ , goes his brain, and he can’t look his friend in the eye.  Friend.  More than friend?

“There’s a nice little independent place just a few blocks away if you don’t mind walking,” Kaladin is saying, and Renarin refocuses himself.

“That sounds nice,” he says, voice barely shaking at all.

It _is_ nice.  Kaladin greets the barista by name and asks about the pastry chef, and the cheer with which the one-armed man behind the counter responds suggests he’s a regular here.  The shop is small and softly lit, with warm-toned wood furnishings and grey-blue walls, and the Community Happenings corkboard near the front is thick with announcements of one kind or another.  Kaladin orders something simple and then it’s Renarin’s turn, the bright-eyed barista watching him expectantly.  He manages to stutter out a request for a small chai, and the barista nods and labels a cup.  Before Renarin can get his wallet out, Kaladin gently elbows him out of reach and offers cash over the counter.

“My treat,” he says, and grins at Renarin again.  Renarin’s heart pounds to a beat of _date date date date date_.

They sit at a table for two tucked against the wall, near the back of the shop where there’s less traffic.  The barista – his nametag says ‘ ~~The~~ Lopen’ – brings their drinks out quickly, and Renarin takes a hasty sip to assuage the dryness that has briefly taken over his mouth.  The chai is boiling hot and scorches his throat on the way down.  He grits his teeth to swallow it without coughing and then looks up-

And Kaladin is looking right at him.  Renarin can’t place the expression on his face and he can’t look away.

“You’re not the person I expected you to be,” Kaladin says at last.  That breaks the tension: Renarin lets out a startled bark of laughter and finds it’s the beginning of a flood.  He pushes his chair back and bends double, elbows braced on his knees, laughing until he can barely breathe.  When it finally subsides he wipes his cheeks with the back of his hands, gasping for air.

“Oh my god,” he manages to say.  “You – I’m sorry – if you knew how much I’ve heard –“

Kaladin is chuckling too, and he shakes his head.  “I can guess, I think.  Sorry.  Bad phrasing.”  He takes a slow sip from his coffee and then sighs.

“What I meant was- oh, hell, I don’t actually know what I meant.   I’d heard people talking about you and I guess I had a mental image of who you were.  It sure wasn’t a guy having a panic attack under a table at my friend’s bar.”  He waves one hand vaguely.  “I think the Renarin Kholin I’d imagined would have called in private security to take the bar apart brick by brick.  Someone who’d tear other people down because the world had hurt him.”

Renarin feels… nothing.  It’s as if there’s a coolness spreading from his spine, holding him perfectly still as Kaladin speaks.  There’s no embarrassment and no fear, but he can’t move or respond; he can only wait for Kaladin to finish.

“You care about people,” Kaladin says.  “I’ve met so many wealthy jerks who don’t, but you do.  At first I was just… Tien, my younger sibling, is agender.  People used to bully them in school, so when I saw that asshole harrassing you in the bar that’s what I was thinking about.  And then I wanted to make sure you were okay afterwards and that was the first time we had a real conversation?”  He shakes his head, sending a few short loose curls bouncing on his forehead.  “Something happened that day, I guess.”

Long, long silence.  Kaladin takes a long gulp of coffee, then another, and finally sighs.  Renarin can barely breathe for the weight of unsaid words.

“I care about you,” Kaladin says, pushing the words out so fast they’re almost unintelligible.  “I’ve been thinking about it for a while.  You can – I don’t know if you’re into guys and I certainly don’t expect anything.  I just think you should know, and you can do whatever you want.  Hopefully still have lunch with me?”  He manages a lopsided smile, but his eyes are worried.

Renarin imagines, in this moment, that his mind is a computer screen that has just crashed.  He scrambles for a response and blurts out the first thing to come to mind:

“Is this a date?”

Stupid, stupid, stupid.  Kaladin startles, begins to shake his head, and then pauses.

“I hoped it might be,” he admits sheepishly.  “That was the best-case scenario.”

Renarin nods.   He thinks about Kaladin’s smiles in their several varieties: split-lipped, carefully harmless, genuine friendship, apprehension and vulnerability; thinks about talking to Kaladin, feeling safe, laughing together, and the bubble of happiness he feels seeing him every day.

Wordlessly, he extends his left hand palm-up across the table to Kaladin’s side.  Kaladin blinks at it and then tentatively takes it in his, squeezing gently.

“Okay,” Renarin says.  “Our first date.”  And he adds another variety of smile to the list: adoration that makes his heart flutter.

 

 


End file.
